The Council of Elrond
by Epona Starling
Summary: Mine and LotRComedy's take on the Council of Elrond. Purely parody...unless you want to belive that this is what happened.


_Disclaimer: Not belonging to either of us. All belongs to Tolkein (if he still wants it back after the two of us have mutilated it!). LotRComedy says "If you die reading this you can't blame us." I need to explain the concept of disclaimers to him once more…_

_Genre: Comedy/parody._

_Summary: Our take on the council of Elrond. Mostly written by my very good friend LotRComedy, but with a few of my own bits thrown in for good measure. His are the bits in regular print, my bits are in italics – so if you hate one of us you know who to have a go at! And let me apologise now for what I am about to do to Erestor. I swear, I love him really and I am very sorry for Emo-ing him up._

**The Council of Elrond**

Frodo awoke in a small room, as sunlight poured in from outside. He kept his eyes shut for a minute, savouring the peacefulness of the surroundings. Eventually, he convinced himself he would have to wake fully, and opened his eyes.

He let out a manic scream as he saw Gandalf standing over him with a chainsaw and hockey mask.

Within seconds, Sam was in the room and had wrestled the drug-induced wizard to the floor, who thrashed slightly before falling into a scarily peaceful sleep, absent-mindedly sucking his thumb. Sam then mustered all his strength and pulled Gandalf into a sitting position, threw the chainsaw out of the window (which was followed by a scream from a passing elf), pulled the hockey mask off the wizard's face and picked up a nearby electrical lead to tie Gandalf to the bedpost.

He turned to Frodo, who was still in shock and being forced to breathe from a respirator by another elf. Sam knelt by his bed and clasped his hand. "I'm so sorry, Mr Frodo," he said, tears pouring out of his eyes.

Frodo managed to catch his breath slightly to feebly shout, "What the hell was that about?! Why didn't he meet us at the Prancing Pony?"

Sam didn't know the answer, but after a few minutes, he had conveniently found a thought-reading machine in a nearby room. He wheeled it inside, set up the projector to face a wall, and plugged to lead into Gandalf's ear, who snuffled slightly in his sleep. He picked up a remote control, and seemed to scroll through what looked like a DvD menu, until he reached the chapter called "My Journey to Orthanc". He clicked play and sat down on the bed _a little bit too near_ to Frodo, helping himself to lard butties and chocolate cake that had been placed on the hobbit's bedside table._(The service is good in Rivendell!)_

_Frodo glanced up at his gardener, slightly startled at the sudden garishness, but when the flickering titles of a spaghetti western style film sputtered on to the screen he promptly forgot all about it and grabbed a handful of popcorn from the elf that had, only a few seconds before, stopped him from hyperventilating._

_Crackly orchestra music filled the chamber and a sepia image filled the screen of a crude Gandalf hand puppet on a horse made of a toilet roll on a stick. Gandalf was cantering towards a far off pepper pot; obviously meant to be representing Orthanc. Suddenly, the music became dark and booming, as the (even more crudely made) Saruman puppet popped up on to the screen, next to a speech bubble saying, "Guess what, Gandalf? I've been chatting to Sauron on MSN messenger, even though we all agreed to put him on our blocklists! I'm pure evil!"_

_Puppet Gandalf's drawn on mouth dropped down into a perfect little 'o' and Sam choked on his buttie. The music became quiet and broody as a speech bubble floating somewhere over his horse's head wondered, "But how could this have happened? All this time I've been vigilantly watching him from me hobbit homies' cribs, searching for the bling of Sauron, and he's been having web-cam chats with him? Playing online games? Endorsing This means war!"_

_Grabbing another handful of popcorn from his new elf-companion, Frodo watched in mild amazement as each puppet wizard drew their staffs (which, if you're going to be picky, really did just look a little like cocktail sticks) and proceeded to beat the magical crap out of each other, while the viola section of the orchestra took the opportunity to play a minute and a half of MC Hammer's 'Can't Touch This.'_

The screen flickered and the scene changed to a memory of Puppet Gandalf at a tea party with several stuffed monkies and teddy bears, humming loudly to himself. As the animals suddenly became much more menacing and leapt over the small table to begin savaging the wizard, the hobbits realised that this was clearly a section of memory where Gandalf had been unconscious. Then it changed back to Puppet Gandalf sitting alone atop a large tower (or, in this case, pepperpot), shivering. It was raining and he was soaked through, the puppeteer occasionally making him shake like a dog to get rid of some excess water. A small (and, very obviously, fake) moth flew up to Puppet Gandalf and landed on his arm.

However hard it was to tell whether or not it was actually looking at him, Frodo and Sam were sure that the wizard was being offered help from this poor and lowly creature. The music was soft and gentle, but seconds later it had stopped abruptly as Gandalf's hand had slapped down on top of the bug, and he wiped away the moth inners on his robes. The orchestra were clearly stuck for something to play, and the sound of ruffling sheet music was heard and whispered orders. Then, they struck up again, in the familiar tune of "Jaws". Something evil was drawing close. At every "duh-dun!" in the music, Puppet Saruman poked out of one of the holes of the pepperpot and then disappeared, only to reappear from another one, slowly working his way to the cowering Gandalf. Then, as the music rose to a crescendo, he burst from the hole nearest the soaking wizard rather suddenly with an evil grin hastily scribbled on his face in felt-tip; he cackled nastily and began pointing and gesticulating at Gandalf.

"Embrace the power of the Ring!" said the small speech bubble on a stick next to him, which was quickly changed to a second: "Or embrace your own destruction!" The puppet Saruman moved forwards and strapped a large block of C4 to Gandalf's chest. Gandalf looked down at his chest blankly, as if trying to work out why there was a connection between a block of explosives and the word "destruction".

But, as Puppet Saruman threw back his head in an evil laugh, a huge shape blocked out the moon. Gandalf stared at it open mouthed: it was a huge penguin hand-puppet. It flapped it's flippers and did a fly-by of the pepperpot, clearly waiting for Gandalf to make the jump. Gandalf took the moment to stand tall and point his minute finger at Saruman: "There is only one Lord of the Ring," said the speech bubble, "and he does not support international terrorism!"

And with that, he ripped the bomb from his chest in a "becoming-the-Hulk" motion and leapt from the pepperpot. However, he tripped on his heavy, soaking robes and plummeted head-first into the ground, landing with a splat. Then the screen went blank.

When nothing came from the projector, Sam frowned, got up, kicked the machine, and when it did nothing more apart from fall apart, he unplugged Gandalf and untied him, then carried him out of the room, leaving Frodo to contemplate what he had seen.

When Frodo was finally fit and well, he began to wander around Rivendell more and more. It was only then that he realised that Bilbo was still there. When he saw him, he ran to him and hugged him as hard as he could. He had forgotten how old Bilbo was, and the sound of a cracking spine filled the air as the hobbit collapsed, twitching on the floor. Frodo looked shiftily left and right before stealing the inscribed sword from Bilbo's waist, the shiny mail coat from under his top (how he got it off without removing Bilbo's shirt, we will never know) and he sprinted away, to the sound of police sirens growing louder in the background.

_Somewhere away to Frodo's right (if you go through a couple of walls, and don't consider any vertical measurements) and about three hours previously, Glorfindel was striding confidently down a corridor. He didn't really have anywhere in particular he needed to be; he was just walking as a way of passing the time. In fact, things had been unusually quiet for about…nine days now._

_As he passed the library, Glorfindel was struck with an incredible idea (well, not that great, but he is blonde, you know): perhaps Erestor was inside. Since he had earlier seen Lindir, the tone deaf chimney sweep, picking up a lyre and attempting to fulfil his name and become a singer; and the twins insisting that everyone call them Figwit 1 and Figwit 2, he figured there was something in the realms of a fanfic at work here. And since he was always paired with Erestor in fanfic (and quite rightly too), he figured he might be able to get a quick snogging session up against a bookcase (or a quick something else if he got lucky and the fic was rated highly enough) if he went in and played his cards right._

_Glancing round the door he scanned for his target, but felt his disappointment right down to his - well, I'll let you guess – when all he saw was Elrond and Legolas, sat together, completely absorbed in a book with equal looks of exasperation on their faces._

_"Ok, Legolas," Elrond was saying through gritted teeth, "let's try this again. Read the letters."_

_Legolas screwed up his face in concentration, "See…Ay…Tee?"_

_"Very good," praised Elrond with all the integrity of a children's TV presenter, "now try the letter sounds_."

_"Cuh…Ah…Tuh. CuhAhTuh. Cat!"_

_"And he might well be the King of Mirkwood one day," Glorfindel murmured to himself and he turned and left in order to keep the will to live._

_Speaking of the will to live, he suddenly had another thought about Erestor (not that these were few, nor were they far between). He had checked the generic Glorfindel-Erestor-fluff-in-the-library setting, but perhaps this wasn't that kind of fic. Should he quickly browse Rivendell and check Erestor wasn't the star of an angst attack and currently trying to hang himself from his bedpost, or send out a search party to ensure he wasn't being attacked by a Mary-Sue?_

_He never actually made this decision though, as at very second he was distracted by the sound of hooves on the cobbles outside…familiar hooves…Asfaloth's hooves! He ran to the window and looked down._

_There was Arwen, looking like she'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, holding some midget in front of her and sitting astride his horse! Glorfindel fumed right down to his leather cowboy boots and, grabbing a handy rope that was hanging from the window (thankfully without Erestor's neck on the other end), he swung down into the courtyard looking like a cross between Robin Hood, Tarzan and Daisy Dukes._

_Not surprisingly, Arwen was a little surprised to see him. She actually dropped her midget out of shock._

_"Glorfindel…I didn't expect to see you here…how are you?"_

_"Oh, not too bad," replied Glorfindel, airily, "I had lost my horse, but I think I've just found him."_

_Arwen turned even whiter than she usually was: so white that Glorfindel was sure he could just about see through her pearly skin._

_"Ah…yes…about that…" she stuttered, trying to inconspicuously move herself away from Asfaloth by a kind of sideways line-dancing step. "You see…I needed a horse…"_

_"To do what with? Charge recklessly through the countryside hoping to find a mildly good looking tramp and a handful of midgets?"_

_"Well…" Arwen gave a guilty little half-smile and tried to look anywhere but at the discarded (and slightly green tinged now that he looked properly at it) midget still lying on the floor._

_"You did that? On my horse? You Horse Stealer! And if it was that Mr "You can't let your horse crap in my presence – I'm a future king" boyfriend of yours you were visiting…"_

_Arwen gave the pout to rule all pouts at the jab at her betrothed, and, if you listened really carefully, you could just about hear the sounds of Legolas' lips imploding._

_"It was, wasn't it? On my horse! You'll pay for this, horse stealer, you and your too-good-to-shave-properly man-toy!" and with this statement of utmost anger, Glorfindel picked up a handy garden cane from the floor (because Rivendell is just handy like that) and twirled it round his head, Jackie Chan style._

_Arwen screamed and ran, but sadly she tripped over the discarded midget (who now looked like he was on the wrong side of "mortally wounded") and crashed to the floor with a surprising loud thud for one dubbed 'Evenstar'._

_Grinning inanely, Glorfindel leaned over her, garden cane held aloft until suddenly he heard a small noise behind him. A timid shuffling noise that in a fanfic such as this could only mean one thing._

_Erestor. Crying. In need of comfort._

_Screw Arwen._

_His fanfiction senses were telling him he was about to have a different kind of fun!_

A bell sounded around Rivendell, and a voice sounded over the tannoy system, it's voice getting slowly cheesier as it went on: "Would the representatives of each Race of Middle-earth, excluding Orcs, Nazgûl, and any other remotely evil creature, please report to the Council of Elrond? Please allow me to take a moment of your time to remind you of the special deals we have on Lembas in your nearby Elfer-market, costing only your eternal soul for a lifetime supply! That's a lot of Lembas for such a small price! Thank you, and have a nice day!"

Everyone made their way slowly to the Council, many still wearing dressing gowns and night caps, yawning widely. Elves, dwarves and men alike walked down to the circular stone area, which was being quickly evacuated by cleaners who had been scrubbing away the bird droppings on the floors and chairs.

Taking his seat, Frodo jumped slightly as he saw Gandalf being wheeled in next to him in a straitjacket, with a mask over his nose and mouth and tied to a trolley which kept him upright. His breathing was raspy and he grinned insanely at Frodo as he arrived, and, as the hobbit noted, quite enjoying the fact that he was in a Hannibal Lecter-esque state.

As all the council members took their seats, Elrond arrived. He took a seat at the head of the Council, looking at each of the people there in turn and scaring them as he did so (who wouldn't be freaked out by those eyebrows?).

"Strangers from distant lands, you have been summoned here to answer the threat or Mordor," he said, rolling his "r"s in that annoying fashion. "Let the Council of Elrond begin," he said, rather enjoying the fact that the council was named after him.

With that, a man with long hair and a beard stood up, and spoke in a Manchester accent. "Hi everyone, my name's Boromir, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Boromir!" chorused the rest of the council.

"I've been having really weird dreams lately," he said, appealing to Elrond.

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "What sort of dreams?" he asked, leaning forwards, his fingers arched together.

"Well, after being chased by several pink elephants and getting hit with a baseball bat with a nail in it exactly fourteen times round the back of the skull, I hear this really eerie voice:

_Seek for the Sword that was broken;_

_In Imladris it dwells,_

_There shall be counsels taken,_

_Stronger than Morgul-spells._

_There shall be shown a token_

_That Doom is near at hand,_

_For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

_And the Halfling forth shall stand._"

Elrond looked blankly at him as Gandalf snorted with laughter through the mask. "'_There shall be counsels taken, stronger than Morgul-spells_'. You actually think there's something stronger than a spell for Mordor? Watch," he said, and mumbled something under his breath; the elf sitting next to him grew a second head, got hit by lightning, froze, lost all his teeth, found an apple tree in his mouth and finally turned into a peacock. "There's no counter-spell," added the wizard. The peacock marched off grumpily.

Elrond watched the retreating bird, thoughtfully stroking a non-existent beard. _He almost looked as if he was going to say something, when his train of thought was interrupted by a platform change at its metaphorical station. Sorry, when two elves attempted, (and failed miserably) to enter the council inconspicuously. The first was Glorfindel, the blonde elf who had, just a few hours earlier, assaulted Arwen with a garden cane, and behind him trotted a very cliché caricature of Erestor. He was wearing skinny jeans, a My Chemical Romance t-shirt that looked like it was made to fit an anorexic seven year old and his "raven black" hair was swept over one eye and dyed blonde at the ends. Apparently it hadn't yet occurred to him to cut it, so it hung down in his face and stuck to his black lipstick. The two tried to enter without attracting too much attention, but the moment Erestor saw the peacock that looked suspiciously like Elladan (or Figwit 1 as his name tag had read), he was reminded forcefully of his own dire misfortunes and began to sob loudly (not that his misfortunes had anything to do with Elladan, peacocks, curses, Figwit, name tags, the council, Imladris, Elrohir, twins, birds, elves, or toasters; he just felt like he hadn't cried in about ten minutes and so should probably do so)._

_Arwen, now sporting a black eye amongst other injuries and feeling pretty pissed off that Aragorn didn't seem to have noticed, looked like she was about to go over and offer some comfort, but was warned to stay away by Glorfindel patting a suspicious looking baseball bat with a nail through it in a somewhat threatening manner and mouthing the words "horse stealer" at her._

After a while, Glóin, a rather stocky and cross-eyed dwarf, stood up. "Look, if the only reason we're here is to listen to the ramblings of a man with a screw loose," he said, indicating Boromir, who was now slumped in his chair with his head in his hands, weeping quietly about being hit with a baseball bat with a nail through it, "then I think we should all just go home. I left the oven on."

But Elrond then stood, and turned to the Hobbit. "Bring forth the Ring, Frodo."

There was a sudden hush over the council, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Aragorn had inadvertently fallen asleep and was snoring quietly in his chair. In fact, it was so quiet that a tumble weed decided to make its literary début and rolled across the scene, getting caught for a second on the end of Elrond's frilly robes, but managing to pull itself free and finish the effect.

Frodo hesitated slightly. It was his little piece of jewellery. Why should he have to put it on a table in front of a load of strange weirdos, some with pointy ears, some the same height as hobbits yet too hairy at the same time? But, at the sight of Elrond jingling the keys to Gandalf's trolley threateningly, Frodo stood up and placed the Ring on the small, stone table in the centre.

Within seconds, Boromir was on his feet, scrabbling to get to the trinket, his face set in a malicious cackle. But, as he was inches away from touching it, Gandalf began chanting another Morgul spell, and burst from his straitjacket and mask, his long grey robs flowing around him. The sound of the Black Speech echoed through the air as he tried to stop Boromir from taking the Ring.

"_Az-naz-shrooby-dooby-dah, Az-shaz-shim-bahtoo, Az-naz-ratahtung-ilious, Grooby-shooby-bah-cah-cah, Isee-Grimbatoo_!" However, it became quickly apparent that this was not Black Speech, just Gandalf trying to get attention.

"What the hell was that?" asked Elrond, as Gimli and Legolas desperately tried to prise Boromir off the Ring.

"The Ring is altogether Evil!" continued Gandalf, oblivious to the fact Gimli was now jumping on Boromir's fingers to make him drop the Ring, which he did (I mean, come on – a dwarf like Gimli jumping on your fingers? I think you'd let go too).

"But it is a gift!" called Boromir, hastily x-raying his hand and setting it in an Imladris-Quick-Heal-Cast (only £9.99 a dozen). "A gift to the foes of Mordor! Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of evil at bay!"

"Yeah, and a lousy job he's done of it, too," said the now awake Aragorn under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Boromir rounded on the man. "And what would a ranger know of such things?" he said, putting as much venom into the word "ranger" as possible.

Legolas was on his feet in seconds and had clouted Boromir around the head with a wooden pole. "This is no mere ranger!" he said. "This is Aragorn, son of Charlie the Second; you owe him your allegiance."

With no connection to the fact he'd just had a stick broken over his skull, Boromir's mouth fell open. If you tried, you'd just be able to cram a whole Wagon Wheel in there. "This is Isildur's Heir?"

"And Heir to the throne of Gondor!"

"Great, Legs, just great," said Aragorn, as a herd of photographers and journalists suddenly appeared, screaming for interviews and for him to strike a pose. He took a second to place on some darks glasses and a large overcoat before turning up the collar and walking out of the council, shielding his face from the following flashing cameras.

"Gondor has no King," pouted Boromir, his bottom lip stuck out, clearly jealous of Aragorn's fame. "Gondor needs no King." He sat back down and wrapped his head in an Imladris-Quick-Heal-Bandage (only £4.99 per roll).

"Aragorn is right," said Gandalf looking crestfallen. "We cannot use it." Obviously the wizard had had plans concerning something along the lines of world domination.

"There is only one thing left to do," said Elrond, who had suddenly decided that, after all, the council _was_ named after him, so he spoke in a very deep and foreboding voice. "The Ring must be destroyed."

An unseen band suddenly struck up a deep and dark chord, and Gimli leapt from his seat. "What're we waiting for?" he cried, and lunged forwards, his axe raised in his hands, roaring a challenge.

He tripped.

Falling forwards, he cracked his head on the edge of the stone table, then landed on the floor and, due to his portly figure, trampolined out of the settlement and landed in a river just near Bree, where he lay unconscious for a long time.

Elrond raised an eyebrow that seemed to have a life of its own and bawled in the direction of the post-flying dwarf. "The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Glóin, by any craft we here possess!" He turned to Frodo and began a staring contest. "It was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can in be boiled, fried, served with chilli sauce and finally," his eye glinted maliciously, "unmade! One of you must do this," he added. Obviously it couldn't be him, he was too old, but they weren't to know that.

Boromir slapped his forehead with his hand. "One does not simply walk into Mordor," he said, clearly trying to suppress his impatience. "You have to ring and make an appointment with a call-centre somewhere in the Grey Havens, and do you know how little english they speak? And then you get put on hold for so long with that feeble pipe music playing over and over and over, and then you get put through to the wrong department..." His explanation went on for several hours.

"Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said?" piped up Legolas, clearly feeling he'd been written out of the script for too long. "The Ring must be destroyed!"

"And... I suppose... you're the one... to do it?" panted a now conscious Gimli, who had just returned from Bree via jogging.

"And what happens when we fail?" called Boromir, wanting attention. "What happens when Sauron takes back his bling and mosies down to Imladris and busts us all up?"

"I will be dead before I see the ring in the hands of an elf!" cried Gimli, and with that, the dwarves and elves launched into a massive brawl, which was basically just a huge cloud with words like "Pow!", "Whack!" and "Kerthunk!" flying out of it. Every now and again you could see a dwarf fly out and then struggle to his feet, and jump in again.

Boromir cracked his knuckles and dived into the fray. Gandalf clapped his hands gleefully and began laying about anyone he could reach with his staff.

Frodo looked at the Ring. It seemed to be calling him, and somehow bursting into flame. He stood up. He didn't know what made him do it, just instinct, he guessed. Then again, it could be something to do with the fact that a dwarf had just grabbed his seat, pulled it from beneath him and walloped it around the back of an elf's head, who still managed to stay upright.

"I will take it!" he called. "I will take the Ring to Mordor!" He paused for effect. "Although, I do not know the way..."

"I will help you bare this burden, Frodo Baggins," said Gandalf, walking over to stand with him. _The only unstable wizard in Middle-earth_, thought Frodo, _and I have to get him_. "As long as it is yours to bear."

Aragorn burst from a ring of photographers. "If by my life or death I can protect you," he said, throwing away his coat and glasses, "I will. You have my sword."

"And my bow," said Legolas, dropping the dwarf he was strangling.

"And my axe," said Gimli, not to be outdone, and dislodged his aforementioned weapon from the chest of an elf.

Gandalf winked at Elrond, who, to the surprise of many, winked back. _(Cue all the Gandalf Elrond shippers having a field day. There's one…and there's another…hmm…the third one must be off sick.)_

"You carry the fate of us all little one," said Boromir, leering slowly forwards. "If this is the will of the council, Gondor will see it done."

Then, from nowhere, Sam parachuted into the area. "Hey!" he called, landed none too gently on Elrond's head. "Mr Frodo's not going anywhere without me!"

"That is clear, Master Gamgee, as you even resort to sky-diving to be by his side," said the elf lord, rubbing his head.

"Oi!" came a shout. It was Merry and Pippin. "We're coming too! They'd have to send us back tied up in a sack to stop us!"

"That can be arranged," said a nearby elf, grinning evilly and stretching a length of rope between his hands. He was swiftly tackled by two cameramen, who, after all the mess-ups, wanted to make the ending decent at least.

"Anyway," said Pippin, "you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission... quest... thing..."

Gandalf slapped him round the back of the head.

"Nine companions," said Elrond, quickly doing the mental arithmetic. "So be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring!"

"Excellent!" cried Gandalf, who promptly fell over with a heavy crash and began snoring.


End file.
